


Nocturnal's Chosen

by ValyrianAluminum



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Crossover, Dark!Jon, Dragonborn!Jon, F/M, Nightingale!Jon, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, War of the Five Kings, he's sorta like a mob boss, kinda not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:20:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ValyrianAluminum/pseuds/ValyrianAluminum
Summary: “My Thane, are you well?”Jon forced a smile at his housecarl, but his usual practiced charm was impossible to muster. His hand was shaking too badly to pull it off convincingly.After all this time…He looked to the unopened envelope in his hand. The seal was unmistakable.A direwolf.“They’ve found me.” Jon whispered, feeling his eyes water. The smile he now wore was realer than any he can remember.He repeated it once more. It was too good to be true.“They’ve found me.”Or: The last Dragonborn takes on the War of the Five Kings.
Relationships: Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 74
Kudos: 227





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Dovahkiin Spreads His Wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16618898) by [VixenRose1996](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VixenRose1996/pseuds/VixenRose1996). 



> Welcome to my Dragonborn!Jon AU!
> 
> I am not as familiar with the Elder Scrolls lore as I am with ASoIaF, so if I fuck up anywhere, feel free to correct me!
> 
> This was inspired by one of my favourite fics on this site: A Dovahkiin Spreads His Wings by VixenRose1996. That story is _fantastic_ and if you have not read that yet, I highly recommend it.
> 
> Enjoy!

**PROLOGUE**

Jon Snow was shaken awake by a large, meaty hand. He jumped at the urgency of the awakening, almost falling from his hammock. 

“Wake up, boy!” Ser Marlon yelled, eyes wide with terror. “Pirates! Arm yourself!”

It took Jon a moment to snap out of his sleep addled stupor, and _truly_ grasp the information he was being given. But once he did, terror gripped his heart in a vice grip, cold as ice. 

“B-but I don’t have a sword.” Jon stuttered out, as if _that_ was the significant part of the command he was supposed to respond to. 

“You don’t have a dagger? Or an axe?” Ser Marlon questioned desperately. “ _Anything?_ You’re castle trained, boy. We need your help.”

“S-ser Wylis hasn’t armed me yet.” Jon responded meekly, still quaking in his boots. He could hear the cries of death coming from above deck. 

It was true. As squire to Ser Wylis Manderly, Jon was only allowed to carry arms should his knight deem him worthy. And seeing as Jon had only just recently seen his ten-and-fourth nameday, he still had a few years before Ser Wylis deemed him ready to bear steel.

“Well find one if you can, boy.” Ser Marlon said, chins a-jiggle. “We need you up on deck.”

Ser Marlon stomped off, unsheathing his greatsword, and grumbling a thousand curses at his cousin. Jon jumped up, doing his best to ignore the fear that still gripped his insides. He exited his small cabin, and into the crew quarters. He found a rusted longsword next to a hammock halfway down the quarters. _Sharp enough_ , Jon decided on a whim after testing the edge. _At least I hope so._

He ran to the staircase that would take him to the deck, but paused. He took a moment to psyche himself up.

_I could die_ , he realized. _If I walk up those stairs, I could die._

Knights from the stories didn’t hesitate before battle. In the stories, the knights bravely vanquished any evil foe they came across. They put their duty and their honour ahead of their fear. 

They were brave. 

_And so, I must be brave._

Without thinking further, Jon ran up the stairs, and threw the door open. He charged at the first stranger near the break in railing that denoted the accommodation ladder, sword held high. The pirate was occupied with another crew member, and so he wasn’t made aware of Jon’s presence until there was a rusty longsword plunged through his side. The pirate screamed in agony, and fell to the deck, the force of which requiring Jon to withdraw his sword. The wound erupted with red, and Jon was reminded of the fountain in the White Harbour city square. _A morbid thought._ The pirate’s lifeblood stained the deck red, and within a few seconds the light faded from his eyes.

_I killed him_ , he thought, suddenly sick to his stomach. I _did that._

The man the pirate had been occupied with was catching his breath while leaning on the railing. He sent Jon a grateful nod, before turning his head to spit bloody spittle into the sea, and then returned to the chaos. Jon made to do the same, but the chaos found him first.

A massive man in colourful finery blocked his path, mace in hand. He made a heavy sidelong swing at Jon’s head, and Jon made to duck. The mace barely passed over his head, and Jon felt the wind of it rustle his hair. 

Taking advantage of the massive pirate’s brief vulnerability, Jon stabbed at the man’s thigh, hoping to hobble him. _There’s an artery in a man’s thigh_ , Ser Rodrik had told him once, forever ago. _Nick him good, and he’ll die in seconds._ He was only partially successful, as the pirate moved to dodge, and the blade grazed the outside of his breeches, leaving a trail of red in it’s wake. The pirate cried out, but it was more in annoyance than pain, verifying Jon’s suspicion that the cut was not very deep.

Jon was busy admiring his landed blow, and didn’t notice the man’s mace coming for a swing on his backhand until the last moment. There was no time to dodge, and so he held his sword in a defensive stance in protection of his head in an effort to deflect the blow. 

Mace met sword in a loud clang, shockwaves oscillating through Jon’s bones, and the force of the hit knocked him off balance. He fought with gravity to steady himself, but his foot hit a wet patch on the deck, and any of the friction between the sole of his boot and the wood grain of the deck was lost. He well and truly slipped, falling backwards. He reached back for where the railing should be, to steady himself, but instead grabbed nothing but air.

_The accommodation ladder_ , Jon realized in horror as he went weightless.

He continued to fall, watching the cog’s upper deck get farther and farther away from him as he fell toward the water. 

_I slipped on the pirate’s blood._ Jon realized, and he would’ve chuckled at the dark irony had he not been falling to his inevitable death. _I killed him, but he got me right back from the grave._

The faces of his family flashed before his eyes. _Father. Robb. Arya. Bran. Rickon. Sansa._

He hit the back of his head hard on something on the way down.

He didn’t remember hitting the water.

. . .

He awoke in a hammock. There was something uncomfortably familiar about the situation. 

_Was it all some terrible dream?_

Jon opened his eyes, and the assault of light forced him to shut them immediately. It felt like the daylight was stabbing him in the brain through eyes like a thousand of Sansa’s sewing needles. The back of his head was throbbing in pain, and he groaned, throwing an arm over his eyes in an effort to return to the sweet darkness he’d just been in. 

_And my throat feels like the damn Red Waste._

“So you’re awake. Good.”

Jon furrowed his brow in confusion, although there was no way the stranger who’d just spoke would be able to see that through his arm. Jon wasn’t quite ready to speak real words yet, and so he answered the stranger with a questioning _hmm?_

“Does your voice not work?” The stranger questioned. 

His accent was unlike any Jon had ever heard before. Lord Wyman had hosted men from all corners of the map in his Merman court, and so Jon had heard the accents of men from Braavos, to Tyrosh, to Lys, to Qohor. 

But this man’s accent was unlike any he’d ever heard before.

“My voice works.” Jon croaked out through his sandpaper dry throat. “Water?”

“Here.”

There was some movement close to him, and then strong hands were removing his arm from his eyes. Even though his eyelids provided some protection, the light stung something fierce. Jon groaned in pain and protest, but the mystery man with the mystery accent seemed to care not. 

What felt like a cup was forced into Jon’s hand, and the faint sloshing sound it emanated no doubt denoted water. _Or something near enough._

Jon knocked back the cup, and let the lukewarm, barrel-stale water wash over his dry tongue, and down his parched throat. In three large glugs, the cup was empty.

“Better?” The mystery man asked.

Jon let his eyes flutter open, to see a man who’d seen a hair over twenty years, with long blonde hair, and skin as pale as Jon’s own. He was dressed in what looked like some variation of leather armour, with many straps and pockets, and a hood which was currently hanging at the nape of his neck.

“Better.” Jon confirmed with a nod of his head. 

“Good.” The man said. “You have a name?”

“Jon.” Jon croaked, before swallowing. “Jon Snow.”

“Pleasure meeting you, Jon Snow.” The man greeted with a nod. “I am Etienne.”

“Well met, ser.” Jon returned. “W-Where am I?” _Where are the rest of the crew? Ser Marlon?_

“At sea.” Etienne answered with a wry smirk. “Considering how we found you, you should consider yourself lucky you’ve not awoken in Sovngarde.”

Jon’s only answer was a confused look.

“Sovngarde?” Etienne prompted again, as though that word meant something. “Are you not a Nord, then? With the accent, I’d have thought…”

“Nord?”

Etienne levelled him with a calculating stare. 

“Where are you from, boy?”

“The North.”

“North of what?”

“Westeros.” Jon answered, confusion colouring his tone. _What other North is there?_

“What?”

Jon furrowed his brow even more. “ _Westeros_.”

“By the eight, boy!” Etienne said, as though it were a curse. _When did they add an eighth god?_ “Start speaking some sense!”

“I am!” Jon insisted, growing frustrated. “I am Jon Snow, bastard from the North, one of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros.”

Etienne continued to look at him as though he’d grown a second head. Jon heaved a frustrated sigh. _Why is he acting as though_ I’m _the one who’s speaking nonsense?_

“Westeros?” Etienne asked, before repeating it a few times, as though testing it on his tongue. “I’ve never heard of a _Westeros_ before.”

“Well, where are you from, then?” Jon asked, hoping to make some sense of this confusing interaction. “I’ve never heard an accent like yours before.”

“I’m a Breton of High Rock.” Etienne answered as though Jon should know what bloody _High Rock_ was.

“I’ve no idea what High Rock is.” Jon told him honestly. 

And he didn’t. As a squire to the heir to House Manderly, Jon had to know as much as he could about the ports and cities of the known world. Any trade beyond the Seven Kingdoms that the North wished to partake in had to run through White Harbour. Trade could come from all over, and there was potential for trade everywhere. 

_I know every city and port in the known world,_ Jon thought. _High Rock is not one of them._

_Wait._

_Known world_. 

Jon’s breathing picked up.

“So you’ve never heard of Westeros.” Jon thought aloud, before turning away Etienne. “And I’ve never heard of High Rock. You realize what this means?”

“It could mean one of two things.” Etienne responded with narrowed eyes. “One of which is that you are insane. _But_ , it could also mean that you are from an undiscovered land.”

“It’s not undiscovered.” Jon answered defensively. “We have big cities and loads of people.”

“I’m sure.” Etienne answered with an indulgent smile. “Well, I hate to break it to you boy, but we won’t be returning you to your discovered undiscovered land. At all.”

Jon’s eyes snapped to Etienne’s, and his heart sunk into his stomach. “W-what?”

“We found you in the middle of nowhere.” Etienne clarified. “You were adrift, floating on a piece of lumber. You’re lucky to be alive. We have two months left on our journey to Solstheim, and we can drop you off there, if you’re willing to work. Since we found you in the middle of the sea, I assume you can earn your keep? You know your way around a cog?”

Jon nodded, afraid he’d start weeping if he spoke.

“Good.” Etienne said. “We’ll give you a few days to recover, and then we’ll put you to work.”

Jon nodded again, feeling numb. Etienne’s face softened ever so slightly.

“I’ll ask the navigator to keep track of where we were, and where we go.” Etienne said. “We’ll write the directions down for you. If you can find some explorer willing to follow them, you might be able to find your way back home. For now, though…” Etienne finished with a shrug that was half apologetic, and half indifferent.

Jon nodded again, beginning to feel like a bobblehead doll. Etienne got up to leave, and gave Jon a _pat pat_ on the shoulder.

Jon buried his tears in his hammock. Any hopes that he’d ever see his family again were buried along with them.

. . .

Jon earned his keep over the next few months. He scrubbed the deck, cleaned the chamber pots, and worked in the kitchens. There was no thanks given, but Jon never expected any. They’d saved _his_ life, after all. 

The rules were pretty simple. He ate early in the morning, and wasn’t allowed to eat or rest until all his chores for the day were finished. Some days he was done before midday, and enjoyed a day reclining in his hammock, or practicing with a wooden sword he’d _borrowed_ from Etienne. 

_He won’t miss it. He carries around a real one on his hip everywhere he goes._

The only other rule was that Jon was not, under any circumstances, allowed in the backroom. The door was constantly locked, and Jon had only seen Etienne and one other man with a similar look to him enter. During those times, Jon had been trying to get a look at the _big secret_ contained within the backroom, but they were very discreet.

Until one night, about a month and a half in, he overheard Etienne and his fellow kinsman— _Bretons_ , _I think they call themselves_ , —discussing the contents.

He didn’t catch the entire conversation, but a few words stood out. Etienne referred to the contents of the backroom as the _goods_ , and said that their “client in Hla Oad” only hired their boat in the first place due to their “ability to be _discreet_.”

Jon had taken down enough of these vessels with Ser Wylis to know what was going on.

This was a smuggler’s cog. 

Jon’s theory was confirmed when an alarm went off one morning, almost two months in. Jon had been breaking his morning fast, when Etienne burst in, with a severe look on his face.

“You know nobody’s name on this ship, boy.” Etienne said, voice cold as ice.

“Wha—”

Etienne’s sword was at Jon’s throat in an instant.

“You know nobody’s name on this ship.” Etienne repeated, emphasizing each word. “Do we understand each other?”

Jon nodded as much as the steel pressing his larynx allowed.

“We saved your life.” Etienne reminded him, not for the first time. “Remember that.”

Only a half hour later, the ship was sandwiched between two larger galleys, and was being boarded by men in matching leather armour, decorated with red cloth. Each galley’s sail was emblazoned with what looked like a dragon, designed in the shape of a diamond.

All the men had their hands up, and weapons on the deck. 

“Remember what I said, boy.” Etienne hissed from behind Jon. “The Imperials ask you anything, you don’t know me, or anyone else here.”

Jon nodded again. _I got it the first time. And the second._ And _the third._

A man in finer armour then the rest of the imperial soldiers boarded the smuggler’s cog then, and surveyed Etienne’s crew with shrewd eyes. _This one’s a higher rank than the rest. An officer, perhaps? Or a knight? Do they have knights in these far away seas?_ The officer’s gaze passed over Jon, and he paused a second, narrowing his eyes, but continued his appraisal. He turned to one of his men, and nodded.

Minutes later, imperial soldiers were descending to the lower decks. Minutes after that, they returned to the upper deck, hands full of goods. They toted silks, weapons, and building materials. One man held an open strongbox, which looked to contain many of a sort of gold coin, as well as a few valuable gems. 

Etienne sighed in defeat behind Jon, and the officer turned back to the men who were guarding the crew.

“Round them up.” He barked, and in an instant Jon, as well as the rest of the crew, had their hands forced behind their backs, and tied with coarse rope. The imperial soldiers directed Etienne’s crew across planks, and onto the imperial galleys. No words were spoken, but everyone knew what was going on.

_Etienne’s client won’t be receiving his shipment._

_And I’m about to spend time in prison for the horrendous crime of being saved by the wrong people._

. . .

Jon’s eyes blinked open. His head was pounding, only made worse by the jarring bumps and shaking of the cobblestone road beneath the carriage he found himself sat in the back of. He made to rub his eyes, but found his hands bound in front of him. _Freedom was a luxury, even if only for a few weeks._

“Hey, you. You’re finally awake.”

Jon’s eyes snapped to the man who’d spoken. He’d seen perhaps thirty namedays, and had long blonde hair, and a dirty face. He wore chainmail armour, covered with a blue jerkin, and his hands were bound, same as Jon’s.

“You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that thief over there.”

Jon made to respond, but the supposed _thief_ who sat on Jon’s diagonal snipped back at the first speaker, and Jon’s head was in no place to pay attention to their conversation. Until, the thief addressed him. It took a moment for Jon to comprehend that he was being spoke to.

“…you and me, we shouldn’t be here.” The thief informed him. _Of course we shouldn’t be here,_ Jon thought snidely. _I should be in White Harbour pretending to enjoy the lamprey pie._ “It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.”

The thief and one of the “Stormcloaks,” the one that wasn’t gagged, bickered back and forth for a little longer, earning them a rebuke from the driver of their carriage, and Jon tuned it out, focusing instead on the pounding of his head, and struggling to remember how he’d found himself in this situation.

That was, until something the thief said that incensed the Stormcloak across from Jon. _Angry voices might mean conflict,_ Jon thought lazily. _Perhaps I should tune back in._

“…you’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King!”

_That must be the gagged man beside me. He doesn’t look like much of a King._

“Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm?” The thief asked, aghast, before realization set his features to terror. “You’re the leader of the rebellion! But if they’ve captured you… Oh gods! Where are they taking us?”

“I don’t know where we’re going,” The Stormcloak admitted in a grave tone. “But Sovngarde awaits.”

That set the horse thief into a panic, and Jon understood the gravity of the situation. _The punishment for treason is death_ , Jon thought, with no small amount of panic of his own. _Father’s passed that sentence many a time. And the Imperials think I’m one of them._

In some odd form of near-death camaraderie, the Stormcloak comforted the thief, easing his panic somewhat. _Father says that you find your true friends on the battlefield,_ Jon thought. _Perhaps that applies to the headsman as well._

“And you, boy?” The Stormcloak asked, now addressing Jon, with kind eyes. “Where are you from?”

“A long way from here.” Jon croaked out, clearing his throat. “A _very_ long way.”

They then passed under an archway, and into a keep crawling with soldiers. The horse thief was praying to gods unknown to Jon, and the Stormcloak was muttering something about the Imperials, and this _General Tullius_ who would be overseeing their sentences, and doing some reminiscing about the keep they found themselves within. _Helgen._

_I’m about to die._

The thought was unbidden, but true nonetheless. Jon almost began to laugh at the tragic comedy that was his life.

His story had many chapters. 

A difficult, but happy childhood, safe and loved in the walls of Winterfell. _Mostly loved, anyway._

Being sent to squire for Ser Wylis Manderly at age one-and-ten, where he worked hard every day, putting his blood, sweat and tears into earning a knighthood. 

That ill-fated trading voyage, where Jon’s squireship services were loaned to Ser Wylis’s cousin: Ser Marlon Manderly. The subsequent pirate attack, where he killed his first man, and almost died himself.

Waking up on a strange smuggling ship, with strange smugglers, who had strange names and accents, and were from a strange place. Working to the bone to earn his next meal, in the hopes that wherever this smuggling ship docked, there was an explorer brave enough to help him. Those hopes being thoroughly dashed as the ship was apprehended, and the crew taken into Imperial custody.

Being held prisoner on that Imperial galley, wondering if he was being sailed to his death, or just confinement. _For a crime I never committed._ Never saying anything about his innocence to the guards, in accordance to his promise to Etienne. _I owe him my life_ , he would remind himself, if the urge to proclaim his innocence ever arose. _They would want information from me, anyway. I’ll keep my promise._

Landing and some port, and being loaded on a carriage to somewhere else, to _await justice._ Slipping out of the too-big handcuffs, which were made for adult wrists. Stealing a guardsman’s sword, bow, and arrows, and sneaking away from the caravan of prisoners, into the night. Wandering aimlessly and without direction for days, which turned into weeks, through the wilderness. The wilderness turning into mountains, thanking both the gods and his father for teaching him how to hunt. _Rabbits and foxes have never tasted so good._

Coming across a skirmish between many soldiers in red and few soldiers in blue. Doing his best to give it a wide birth, but being spotted anyway. Leading the Imperials on a short, futile chase, ending anticlimactically when he tripped over a tree root, and hit his head on a rock.

Waking up in a carriage with a horse thief, a soldier, and a king, being lead to the executioner’s axe like lambs to the slaughter. 

The end. Book closed.

Or so it would seem.

_If this_ General Tullius _has any honour, he will do the deed himself,_ Jon thought defiantly, as the carriage slowed to a stop. _Hiding behind the executioner is for cravens. Father always looked a condemned man in his eye, before sending him to meet his gods._

“Let’s go.” The Stormcloak said, meeting Jon’s eyes. “Shouldn’t keep the gods waiting.”

“No! Wait!” The horse thief called. Jon rolled his eyes. _Craven._ “We’re not rebels!”

“Face your death with some courage, thief.” The Stormcloak rebuked sternly. Jon smirked to himself. _I like him._

“You've got to tell them!” The horse thief called, falling on deaf ears. “We weren't with you! This is a mistake!”

He was ignored by everyone present.

“Step towards the block when we call your name. One at a time” The woman in plate armour and a helm called to the motley troupe of prisoners.

Jon had seen enough of the Imperials to know what her gear denoted. _A captain._ Months ago, he would have found it queer to see a woman in armour giving orders to men without. Now, he was used to it. _The women here don’t sit around meekly waiting for their men to save them. An admirable quality._

_Arya would love it here_ , Jon realized with a sharp pang to his chest. _Not that I’ll ever see her again to tell her about it._

“Empire loves their damn lists.” The Stormcloak grumbled beside him, stepping down from the carriage. Jon allowed himself a small chuckle.

“Do you have a name, boy?” The Stormcloak asked him lowly. 

“Jon Snow.” Jon croaked in response.

“You face your death with the courage of a man twice your age, Jon Snow.” The Stormcloak told him. “I am Ralof. I am honoured to die by your side.”

Jon acknowledged him with a nod, and a _you, as well_ , before tuning back in to the Imperial orders.

“Ulfric Stormcloak” The man beside the captain read, in a grave tone. “Jarl of Windhelm.”

“It has been an honour, Jarl Ulfric!” Ralof called. _That man is loyal to the very end._

Ulfric Stormcloak made his way toward the executioners block.

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

Ralof followed his king silently, with his head held high.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.”

“No! I’m not a rebel!” The horse thief, Lokir, called in a panicked voice. “You can’t do this!”

In an act of true foolishness, the kind only present when one is truly desperate, Lokir took off. His hands were still bound, and he was in the same thin, ratty clothes they gave Jon. _Not to mention the many Imperial soldiers and archers._

“Halt!” The captain roared, but Lokir paid her no mind. If anything, he ran faster.

“Archers!”

Three arrows sprouted from the horse thief’s back, and he fell face first into the cobblestone, unmoving. Jon pitied the poor man.

“Anyone else feel like running?” The captain asked, giving Jon a pointed glare. Jon met her eyes defiantly, but stayed put.

“Wait. You there.” The man with the list called to him, confusion colouring his tone. “Who are you, boy?”

“Jon Snow.” Jon introduced himself.

“Where are you from, Jon Snow?” The list holder asked. 

“Nowhere you’ve heard of.” Jon replied with a small smirk.

“Captain, what should we do?” The man asked concernedly. “He’s not on the list.”

_I won’t actually survive this, will I?_

“Forget the list.” The captain replied, almost instantly. Jon sighed in resignation. _Gods, you’re a bitch._ “He goes to the block.”

The man gave Jon a seemingly sincere apology, but acquiesced to his captain’s orders without protest, and Jon was led to stand with the rest of the prisoners.

General Tullius then came to stand in front of Ulfric Stormcloak. Jon assumed he was about to gloat over his victory, and decided not to pay all that close attention, but he caught a pretty serious accusation being thrown.

“…a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his King and usurp his throne.”

Ulfric grumbled something back, unintelligible through his gag. General Tullius launched back into his speech, and Jon tuned out the _actual_ gloating. He instead decided to focus on the Imperial banner, in the distance. _Displaying a dragon banner in my homeland is considered treason,_ Jon thought. _They hang them with pride in these lands._

_The only way I survive today is if the dragon from that banner comes to life, and wreaks havoc._

The smug General’s speech was cut off by a far away roar, that sent shivers down Jon’s spine. _What in Seven hells was that?_

General Tullius waved off the concerns of his men without concern. Some priestess was called forward, and she began reciting some queer prayer from her queer god, in some manner of _last rites._ She was cut off by some disgruntled soldier who wore the same armour as Ralof, and Jon smirked. _Are all Stormcloaks this testy?_

The man was forced to his knees, taunting his executioners all the while, right up until his head was removed from his body. Jon didn’t look away.

“Next!” The captain called. “The foreigner!”

_That would be me._

Jon made to approach, but that same chilling roar sounded again, and it sounded closer. _I’ve never heard a roar like that. Perhaps the executioner’s block is a mercy, if there is an animal like that waiting for me._

“There it is again.” The man who held the list earlier said to his captain, voice wavering a tad. “Did you hear that?”

“I _said_ ,” The captain sneered back. “Next. Prisoner.”

_Who pissed in your oatmeal, lady?_

Jon marched forward, and was forced to his knees over the block. The last prisoner’s head was in the waiting basket, and its lifeless eyes were staring back at him. Jon turned his head to his left. _I’ll have a more pleasant last sight than all that._

That sight turned out to be the executioner, himself. The order was given, and the man raised his axe.

The roar came again. _Much, much_ closer.

And then, flying over the walls of Helgen, was its source.

_It’s not possible._

But when the dragon landed on the tower above them, and let loose a roar so powerful it flung Jon back several feet from the executioners block, he had no choice but to believe.

_A dragon._

_A thrice damned dragon._

. . .

Jon awoke with a gasp, in a cold sweat. He slowed his rapid breathing, letting the soothing crackling of the hearth ground him, before swinging his legs over the side of his bed, and cradling his face in his hands. _The Helgen dream,_ he thought in anguish. _I haven’t dreamt it in more than a year._

He got up, and poked his head into the sitting area, finding it empty. _Iona is still asleep, meaning it’s not yet morning._ He threw on a a thin tunic, and some breeches, and stepped out onto the balcony of Honeyside. The night sky was cloudy, per usual. The night air felt cool on Jon’s sweat drenched skin, and the feeling was soothing. 

Jon doesn’t like to think of that day, four years ago, in Helgen. It reminded him too much of the boy he used to be. A boy who valued honour, and saw lying as distasteful, even if it was the smart thing to do. A boy who thought Ralof’s devotion to a bigoted, bitter Jarl on a power trip was _admirable_. A boy who was, more than anything, _terrified_. 

That day had been the most afraid that Jon had ever felt in his life. A gigantic, fire-breathing myth-come-to-life would terrify most sane people, and Jon was quaking in his boots. He’d escaped with Hadvar, killing Stormcloaks, gigantic spiders, and a bear along the way. 

_He also taught me magic_ , Jon remembered fondly. _A simple fire spell and a simple healing spell._

Jon would go on to fight alongside Hadvar many a time, but Helgen was the one he remembered most vividly. _A boy with a stolen sword and armour, fighting alongside someone who’d just tried to have me executed._ It was a tale fit for a song, one his sister Sansa would enjoy.

A pang went through Jon’s chest at that thought. Jon didn’t enjoy thinking of his family, either. _For different reasons._ In the four years since he’d been in Skyrim, nary a word came from anyone in his old life. _In all likelihood, they think I’m dead._ The first time he’d had _that_ particular thought, he’d had to hold the tears in. _Guild Masters cannot show weakness, after all. Even when it comes to lost family._

Sometimes he’d slip up. Sometimes, Jon allowed himself to think of his family, and where they were now. _Robb is likely married, perhaps with children. Sansa is no doubt betrothed, if not married already. Bran is probably a squire down south, perhaps to his grand uncle. Rickon was only three when I last saw him, and Robb would write that he was as wild as a wolf. And Arya…_

If Jon had to pick only one sibling to see again, it would be Arya, with little contest. _My little wolf sister._ He could imagine Arya, who would be three-and-ten now, causing her parents all sorts of headaches. 

_It would be so sweet to see them all, once again._

Hope was a fickle thing, but Jon had not lost all of his. _I went from a foolish boy resigned to his own death to a rich, respected man, whose power knows no equal. The World-Eater himself fell to my blade, to my bow, and to my Voice, along with hundreds of his kin. If there was hope for me in Helgen, perhaps it is not so foolish to continue to hope to see my family once again._

Jon’s contact within the East Empire Trading Company was always on the lookout for news about the discovery of a new continent, but there had been no word so far. _It’s not like Gulum-Ei is all that high up, anyway. Argonians are not well trusted._ Jon once again lamented giving Gulum-Ei the role of mole within the Company. _It was a mistake. He values his role highly. I know that if I try to corrupt someone more influential within the Company, he will oust me as Guild Master to Elisif, first chance he gets. And he knows that I know. He may not be that valuable, but he knows too much. Self preservation is that aggravating little lizard’s middle name._

Jon heaved a heavy sigh. _I’m supposed to be sleeping, not troubling myself with tomorrow’s worries._ He looked up, searching for the soft glow of the moon behind the heavy clouds. _There’s still a few hours until sunrise. I can get a bit more sleep._

He re-entered Honeyside, and went back to bed. 

That he didn’t dream of Helgen was a mercy.

. . .

_He was running through the trees, hot on the trail of the prey._

_It was nothing big. A small fox. But his brothers had each felled a deer, and not shared a morsel. His stomach was growling, his muzzle drooling. There were no more deer in this caged forest. The wind told him so._

_And so he settled for the fox. There were more foxes close by. Rabbits too. Squirrels, if he got desperate. But he wouldn’t. Rabbits and foxes were fast, but he was the fastest._

_The biggest, too. His brothers spent too much time with their men, learning to submit, while he ran free and wild. He had a man of is own, too. But his man was far. Somewhere very far. He didn’t know if he would ever meet his man. He hoped he would, one day._

_The eldest brother’s man would stay with him sometimes. The man would talk to him, in man speak. They weren’t commands, and so he knew not what was being spoken of. One word would catch his attention, though. Always._

_Jon._

_Whenever the eldest brother’s man said “Jon,” he could not help the longing that thrummed through his veins. Whenever that word was spoken, he longed for companionship._

_Not with just anyone. He longed for the companionship his brothers and sisters had with their humans. While the eldest brother’s man was kind, and fed him bloody meat when he came to visit, the man was not_ his _man._

_Not_ his _companion._

_One day, he would meet his man._

_He would meet his Jon._

_One day._


	2. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon receives a letter.

**JON**

Jon awoke slowly to the smell of fresh baked pastry. His mouth began to water.

_Iona makes the best snowberry crostata._

Jon had howled with laughter the first time he’d discovered his housecarl’s baking talents. Iona was the hardest, most serious, no-nonsense person Jon had ever met. _She acts like she hates fun. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her fully smile, let alone laugh._ And so, when she’d joined him in claiming a bounty on a giant close to Windhelm, and he’d caught her picking snowberries like some genteel farmer’s daughter, he’d been _confused_ to say the least.

But then he’d tried the crostata. And that shut him up quite quickly.

Jon swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing the tunic he’d discarded after the previous night’s musings. 

_I dreamt I was a wolf, again._

It was a strange dream, but one he’d been having more and more frequently as of late. Sometimes he’d be hunting, and sometimes he’d be playing with other wolves. _My brothers and sisters. Or the wolf’s brothers and sisters, to be exact. Though I haven’t seen the sisters in a while. They feel far away, in a sense._ A few times, he’d even seen someone who he thought looked like Robb, but older than he was in Jon’s memory. _Though that was only a boy of ten-and-four._

The dreams were a welcome respite, as they always came after Jon dreamt of Helgen. Sometimes he’d be shocked awake by the memories, and the wolf dreams would come when he’d drift back asleep, but other times the dream would just shift. The base instinct and animalistic fervour Jon would experience in the dreams could never be a feeling that one would describe as _calming_ , yet that was exactly the effect it had. 

Jon sauntered into the sitting area, finding Iona waiting for him. She sent him a nod, before serving him a piece of crostata. 

“Thank you, Iona.” Jon said with a smile. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“So you tell me, my Thane.” She deadpanned in response, causing Jon to snicker. _One day, I’ll get you to laugh._

“Any mail?” Jon asked, like he did every morning.

“Indeed.” Iona responded, before retrieving three closed envelopes, and depositing them in front of him. “Two from Solitude, and one from Whiterun.”

As fond as Jon was of Iona, he knew better than to trust her with much. While she is his housecarl, and is honour-bound to shield not only Jon’s back but his secrets as well, Jon has found that honour only goes so far. If Iona knew the extent to which Jon was involved with the Thieves Guild, he’s not sure she would be above betraying him. _The look she gave me when she informed me that Mjoll the Lioness had been found with her throat slit by the lake speaks volumes on that matter._

_She’d find no justice for me in Riften, however,_ Jon thought smugly. _Jarl Maven Black-Briar is not exactly known for her strict moral code. She fears me too much to make any sort of move. She may be the head of the wealthiest family in Skyrim, and Jarl of the Rift, but she answers to me. No matter how it chafes at her pride._

The first envelope was nothing interesting, being only some friendly correspondence from Jarl Balgruuf. Balgruuf the Greater was a man Jon respected, and liked to a certain degree, but was one he knew to keep his distance from, regardless of how much he’d helped Jon in the past. Balgruuf’s loyalty was to Whiterun more so than to any man, elf, orc, lizard or cat. Because of this, if he discovered any of Jon’s more _nefarious_ proclivities, he would be the first to see Jon’s head on a spike, regardless of any esteem he might hold in the man’s eyes. 

_I’d like to see him try._

Jon instantly chided himself for such thoughts. _Immature_ , he reminded himself. _Conflict only invites more conflict, regardless of how easy the opponents. Someone could always get lucky._ Jon suppressed a sigh. _Power is more addictive than any vice. I’ve done well in disallowing myself to get comfortable with my power, but I can always do better._

Jon made a mental note to write back some friendly response devoid of any real substance, per usual, and moved on to the letters from Solitude.

The first envelope of the two was from Erikur. _The second most ambitious man I’ve ever known._ The agreement between Jon and Erikur was not dissimilar from the one between the Jon and Gulum-Ei. Erikur received protection and financial incentive from the Thieves Guild, in exchange for using his political influence to expand the presence of the Thieves Guild in Solitude. The unspoken part of the agreement was one Jon liked to call _mutually assured condemnation._ If someone breaks the agreement and speaks out, the other would drag them down alongside. 

Erikur was smart, though, and had high aspirations. _Ones that the Thieves Guild could be a potential obstacle to, despite our current ‘friendship.’_ Jon hadn’t been completely sure that confidence would be kept. _If only he had someone close to him that resented him… some family perhaps…_

Jon had made contact with Erikur’s sister Gisli almost immediately after striking the deal with Erikur. It was almost laughable how easy it was to get Gisli on his side. _In case Erikur forgets who he owes, we have his closest relative on our side. Checks and balances keep us afloat._

The letter itself was a regular update on the situation in Solitude, and so he folded it back up to go over with Brynjolf, Delvin, and the rest of the Guild. 

The third envelope nearly stopped his heart.

“My Thane, are you well?”

Jon forced a smile at his housecarl, but his usual practiced charm was impossible to muster. His hand was shaking too badly to pull it off convincingly.

_After all this time…_

He looked to the unopened envelope in his hand. The seal was unmistakable.

_A direwolf._

“They’ve found me.” Jon whispered, feeling his eyes water. The smile he now wore was realer than any he can remember.

He repeated it once more. It was too good to be true.

“They’ve found me.”

. . .

There was nary a closed jaw throughout the Ragged Flagon. _Proof of a new continent does that, I suppose_ , Jon thought in amusement. _I think most of them still thought I was lying about Westeros._

“I think you should go.” Sapphire spoke up from the back, surprising everyone. “You have a chance to reunite with lost family. It’s not a chance afforded to most.”

The rest of the Guild seemed shocked to hear Sapphire speak with such _emotion_ in her voice, but Jon understood. _She’s still not gone back to her old farm. And I don’t blame her._

The person who seemed to be the most surprised at her outburst, however, was Sapphire herself. Her face flushed pink at the attention, and she grumbled something unintelligible, glaring at everyone, before stalking off. 

There was a few seconds of awkward silence before Jon released everyone from their meeting. He sat down at a table, intending to brood over it some more, perhaps over a nice bottle of Black-Briar Reserve, but he was interrupted by Delvin Mallory.

“If you go,” Delvin inquired. “How long will you be gone?”

“Truthfully? I haven’t the foggiest.” Jon admitted with a grimace. “I don’t even know how long the trip would take, let alone how long I’ll be there. The trip will be months, at the least, I think. But beyond that…” Jon finished with a shrug.

“East Empire ain’t being too transparent with their information, eh?” Delvin asked. “I really fuckin’ hate that lizard.”

Jon grinned in amusement. _Would that I could take you with me, Delvin._

“He’s a necessary evil, Delvin.” Jon reminded him, for what felt like the hundredth time. 

“I know, I know.” Delvin drawled with a smirk. “But I don’t see the point in leavin’, if I’m honest. You’ve got a whole life here. And they treated you like horseshit back in that homeland of yours.”

“Family is family.” Jon answered, before giving Delvin a small pointed look. Delvin scoffed.

“Not this shit again.” He muttered under his breath.

“Just a letter, man.” Jon implored. _Seems I have to deal with quarrelling siblings here_ and _back in Westeros._ “Glover misses you dearly.”

“He’s the one who left.” Delvin muttered, a tired song and dance at this point. “Not only me, but his own daughter. He’s in no position to be chastisin’ family members about abandonment. If he wants to talk to me, he can take a bloody boat.”

Jon sighed. _Not today, then._

“Alright.” Jon conceded, before turning on his business face. “Make sure you get someone to case the Pawned Prawn. Someone good, too. Bersi bragged quite loudly about his new lock last time I saw him up at Mistveil. I want his shop hit, and hit hard. Remind him who’s in charge.”

“Not enough to put him out of business, but enough to remind him who his daddy is?” Delvin asked around a smirk. “You got it, boss. New lock, you say?”

“So he says.”

“Cynric will be in heaven, then.” Delvin said. “Only thing that boy loves more than gettin’ arrested is finding a new lock to pick.”

“Cynric?” Jon asked, curious. “Not Vex?”

“For casing a shop? Absolutely.” Delvin affirmed. “Vex will want to rob the place there and then. You know how she gets carried away.”

“True.” Jon mused fondly. “You know I trust your judgement. See it done. And, if you see Brynjolf, can you tell him to find me?”

“Will do, boss.”

Delvin got up to go about his business. Jon was rather fond of Delvin. He’d been at the guild far longer than Jon had, and was one of the first to welcome him with open arms. Delvin had been the one to give Jon his first job, his fifth job, and his fiftieth job. He knew the strengths and weaknesses of every single Guild member, from recruit to veteran. _And he was the first to congratulate me on being elected Guild Master, regardless of my age._

Estimating that he had a few spare minutes before business found him, Jon took out the letter to read. _For the thousandth time._

_Jon,_

_I pray with all my heart that this letter finds you, and finds you well. Hearing that you are alive and well has made my entire summer. Sansa and her septa walked in on me weeping in my study in the Tower of the Hand, after I found out. It was rather embarrassing._

_So much has changed, since you’ve been gone. I have the honour of being named Hand of the King to Robert Baratheon I, as replacement to Lord Jon Arryn, who has recently joined the gods. May he rest in peace._

_Robb is acting Lord of Winterfell in my stead. Sansa has been betrothed to the Crown Prince, and will one day be Queen. Arya is ever her willful self, refusing to conform to the southern standards, may the gods bless her heart. Rickon is staying in Winterfell with Robb, no doubt as wild as ever._

_Bran is not in nearly as good a state as the others. A week before Sansa, Arya, Bran and I were set to leave Winterfell, Bran fell from the Broken Tower. You remember how he enjoyed his climbing so. He was unconscious when the girls and I left, but Robb writes that he’s woken since then, but with has no use of his legs._

_They will all be thrilled to find out that you are alive. Both of your sisters were in joyful tears when I informed them. I even got a few tears out of Jory, though he’ll deny it until his dying breath._

_We all miss you dearly, son. If this letter indeed reaches you, then that means that you can reach us in turn. A letter in response would be amazing, but I ask that you come home. I need to lie eyes on you, just once more. Besides, Sansa and Arya have been bickering even more than usual lately. A visit from you would put that to rest for a good amount of time, I’m sure._

_Please grant an old man this one wish, my son._

_Ever your father,_

_Lord Eddard Stark_  
Lord of Winterfell  
Warden of the North  
Hand of the King

He skimmed over it a few more times, even though he’d practically memorized every quill stroke. He closed his eyes, trying to calm his racing heart. _Sometimes I wish I could use Kyne’s Peace on myself._ He traced the names of each of the siblings with his forefinger. He would recognize his father’s hand anywhere. _He wrote me this letter himself, even as Hand of the King._

Jon hadn’t been sure it was truly a letter from his family at first sight. He _couldn’t_ be sure. As a master of deceit, leading a Guild full of masters of deceit, Jon was well aware of how easy it was to steal a seal, and forge a letter. That strategy was only ineffective if the reader knew the hand of the supposed author on sight. 

And Jon was _absolutely positive_ that this letter was written in Eddard Stark’s hand. Which meant only one thing.

_This letter is for true. It is from my father._

_And he wants me to come back._

Jon’s immediate reaction was to wish to do just that. _Return to Westeros._ It was a hope he’d never lost fully. As the years went on, and no word had come, that longing had been suppressed more and more, until it was a thought he rarely entertained at all. 

This letter unearthed that hope from his chest like a draugr in a crypt. Bursting, and with a vicious vengeance. 

“There you are, lad!”

Jon looked up, with a smile already fixed upon his face.

“I’ve been here since morning, Brynjolf.”

Brynjolf was Jon’s best friend. _Without question._ He’d been the one to take Jon under his wing, and vouch for his place in the Guild in the first place. He’d been in Jon’s corner since the beginning, and was the one to nominate him for Guild Master after they’d left Mercer Frey buried underneath Irkngthand. Any question Jon had, Brynjolf would answer with a patient smile. Brynjolf was like a mentor to Jon, and was someone Jon trusted with his life. _One of the few people I can completely rely on._

“Aye, and I’ve been out doing _actual_ work.” Brynjolf snarked back, taking the seat across from Jon. “Got three new recruits from Honourhall. They’re eager to prove themselves.”

“Good.” Jon told him with a smile. “You know the drill. Pickpocket lessons from Vip first. Then—”

“Then send ‘em to the marketplace. Aye, I know.” Brynjolf interrupted him, before shaking his head in a quizzical fashion. “I can’t believe Mercer never thought of recruiting from Honourhall. Nobody ever suspects a kid.”

“And the life we give them is better than any they’d get at Honourhall. Keeps them loyal, but also happy.” Jon said. “It’s a win-win.”

“Not if you’re shopping in Riften Marketplace.” Brynjolf said around a smirk.

“A loss for them is a win for us.” Jon shot back with a smirk of his own, and they passed into comfortable silence.

“So,” Brynjolf began. “What’d you need me for, lad?”

Jon wordlessly passed him the letter. Brynjolf shot his gaze back to Jon’s with one look at the seal, eyes incredulous. Jon motioned for him to read the letter. 

Brynjolf read over the letter a few times, before giving it back to Jon without a word. Jon noticed the look in his eye, and didn’t speak to him right away. _He’s taking a moment to think it over._

“Wow.” Brynjolf said after a half minute, shock evident.

“Aye.” Jon said, chuckling slightly. “ _Wow_ , indeed.”

“You seem rather calm.” Brynjolf pointed out, seemingly confused.

“I’ve had a few hours to let it sink in.” Jon admitted. “My heart nearly stopped when I first saw the seal.”

“Aye, I can believe it.” Brynjolf said, before pinning Jon with his gaze. “You’re going.”

Jon nodded slowly, even though it wasn’t a question. “Aye. They’re my family.”

Brynjolf smirked at him.

“When do we leave?”

. . .

“Brynjolf and I ride to Solitude tomorrow, around midday.” Jon announced. The whole Guild was gathered in the Ragged Flagon, attending the end of day address. “Until we return, you answer to Delvin. Any decisions you would normally bring to Brynjolf or myself, go to him. If Karliah stops by, tell her what I just told you all. Understood?”

A chorus of agreements arose from the small crowd, and Jon dismissed them to their evening activities. 

“You gonna go speak to the mistress?” Brynjolf asked from his side. “She won’t be pleased if you leave without a goodbye.”

Jon sighed, causing Brynjolf to chuckle.

“I suppose I ought to.” He huffed in resignation. “You coming with?”

“Not a chance.” Brynjolf said around a laugh, hands held in front of him. “She’s scary when she’s mad. You’re on your own, lad.”

“She’s a Daedric Prince! Of course she’s scary when she’s mad!”

“I’ll tell your family you died _honourably_.” Brynjolf drawled, bursting into laughter when Jon sent him a rude gesture as he walked away.

He came upon Nightingale Hall just as the sun slipped behind the mountains. He slipped inside, resigning himself to another conversation with Lady Luck. _If she had a face, she’d have a constant look of smugness. And this is the woman I have to serve in life and death?_ Jon rolled his eyes at the thought.

Jon stepped out onto the platform, and recited the words.

“I call upon you Lady Nocturnal, Queen of Murk and Empress of Shadow… hear my voice!”

A deep violet glow laded through the room, and a smoky orb appeared in front of Jon’s face. _Here we go._

“Jon Snow.” Nocturnal greeted, voice coming from everywhere and nowhere all at once. “I thought I’d asked you to not be so formal with me? Such formalities shouldn’t exist between such good friends.”

Jon was glad for the hood and mask that came with his Nightingale armour, so that him rolling his eyes wouldn’t be so evident.

“I was raised amongst nobility, my lady.” Jon answered, knowing she liked a bit of cheek. “I was taught that formality was endearing.”

“It does have it’s own charm, I suppose.” Nocturnal mused. “Why have you come to see me, today? I’ve been under the impression that your little guild was thriving.”

“We are, my lady. And we only have you to thank for our resounding success, of course.” Jon answered, quickly heaping on thanks and praise. _The Daedra like to be worshipped._ “I’ve come to inform you of something unrelated.”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“Myself and Brynjolf will be leaving the country tomorrow.” Jon informed her. “I’m not sure when we’ll be back. But we will. You have my word.”

“And you always keep your word?” Nocturnal asked, sarcasm dripping from her constantly condescending voice. 

“To you, my lady? Always.” Jon answered quickly. He could almost see Nocturnal’s satisfied smirk. _The Daedric Princes have egos the size of Blackreach._ “To some poor sod I mean to rob? Not so much.”

“You’re so clever.” Nocturnal praised, almost as if she was praising a dog for rolling over. “It gladdens me that you thought to come say goodbye. It’s almost as if you’ll miss me.”

“Of course I will, my lady.” Jon answered immediately, before giving her the sarcasm he knows she enjoys. “I’ll weep every night we’re separated.”

“Hmmm.” Nocturnal hummed. _It’s the closest thing to a laugh I’ll ever get from Lady Luck._ “I wish you safe travels, Nightingale. Give my regards to Brynjolf, as well, since he seems to be too occupied to visit with little old me.”

“I thank you, my lady.” Jon said, perplexed that she put up no fight. “And I will.”

The purple haze faded, and Jon breathed a sigh of relief.

_Thank gods that’s over._

. . .

That night, he packed.

In one chest, he packed personal belongings. A few different sets of fine clothes, Radiant Raiment approved, and his Nightingale Armour. He’d prefer to wear it all the time, but, as a Thane of Riften, he must make certain appearances that an all black, void salt infused, intimidating getup just isn’t _appropriate_ for. 

In the same chest, he packed weaponry. _This might be a bit of overkill, but one can never be too careful._ For blades, he packed Chillrend, his trusty sidekick, Dragonbane, in case of dragons along the way. _Or back home, even. Who knows?_ Lastly, he packed Mehrunes’ Razor, in case close quarter combat was necessary. In the archery department, he packed his Nightingale Bow, _a gift from Karliah that hasn’t failed me yet_ , and Auriel’s Bow, _in case of any wayward vampires along the way._

There was a little bit of room left, and Jon packed it full with over a thousand septims worth of Black-Briar Reserve. _There is truly nothing like it._

In another chest, he packed gifts.

He’d collected a gift for every member of his family, barring Lady Catelyn. _She wouldn’t appreciate a gift, anyhow._ He’d also procured a gift for Theon, the King, _as to endear myself to Father’s employer,_ and the Crown Prince, _for the same reason, but disguised as a gift for his betrothal to my sister_. 

Weaponry seemed to be the theme for the gifts. King Robert would receive a warhammer, the Crown Prince and Robb would receive a sword, Theon and Arya would each receive a bow, and Bran and Rickon would each receive a dagger. _No enchantments. That would be too difficult to explain._

All of the weapons would be of the Nordic variety. _With all the building material here, I wouldn’t want them to think their gifts too queer._ Quicksilver was of a colour to the steel that was standard in Westeros, and so Jon could tell them that it was an _improved_ steel with little to no suspicion.

Both Robb and Lord Stark would receive full sets of Nordic Carved Armour, sans the helmet, which would be replaced by Wolf helmets Jon had stolen out of Eorland Grey-Mane’s armoury in Jorrvaskr. _There truly is nobody with the skill of Eorland Grey-Mane._ Although only steel, the craftsmanship of the Wolf helmets were masterful. Jon also made sure to pack extra quicksilver, ebony, steel, and leather strips to adjust for fitting.

Sansa was the only one who likely wouldn’t appreciated being gifted a piece of weaponry or armour, and so Jon dug around his strongbox for a suitable piece of jewelry. After a few minutes, he came across a Silver Sapphire necklace that would suffice. _I believe this one has an enhanced magicka enchantment, as well. If Sansa ever discovers any hidden magical potential, this will be helpful. A stop to Radiant Raiment in Solitude for some fabric would not go amiss as well, I think._

The last chest was filled with gold. Septims wouldn’t be accepted in Westeros, and so gold ingots would have to do. _Only forty thousand septims worth. Not a huge dent in my finances, by any means._

Jon closed the last chest with a heavy sigh, exhausted. _The things I do for family._ He had another hour before he would get to sleep, and so he decided to go over the plan one more time.

He would call on Mistveil in the morning, and inform Jarl Maven, _and by consequence, the entire Riften court,_ of his departure. _Delvin has been told to increase Thieves Guild activity across Skyrim once my absence has become common knowledge, to give off the impression that my absence has emboldened them. In turn, this would make it look like my presence inspired fear in the Thieves Guild, further distancing my public image from any Thieves Guild involvement, therefore further securing my position. Checks. And. Balances._ He would arrive back at Honeyside, and wait for Sigaar to pull his carriage up to the front of the house, and load his cargo. He would then ride the carriage to Solitude, alongside Brynjolf. 

Brynjolf would be posing as Jon’s steward to avoid suspicion, as a Nord by the name of Raddnar Bold-Mug. Jon had laughed at the name when Brynjolf first suggested it, and Brynjolf proceeded to explain that it belonged to some poor fool who thought his purse was more important than his life. _The Thieves Guild abhors killing, but anything goes in self defence._

Once in Solitude, they would board a ship to Westeros. 

_From there, who knows?_

. . .

The plan went off without a hitch. _It was my plan, so of course it did._

The trip to Solitude was mostly without incident, as well. A group of five bandits tried their luck near Ivarstead, and were promptly slaughtered, and then robbed themselves. _Serves them right, trying to rob two Nightingales. One being the legendary Dragonborn, no less. Fools._ The only other to try their luck was a single vampire south of Dragon’s Bridge. Jon had felt naught but pity for poor creature. _It looked newly infected, confused, and desperate for a meal. Killing it was a mercy._

They arrived just shy of midday, and instead of staying in the Winking Skeever, as Jon usually did, they decided to call on Erikur. _He won’t refuse me. And he keeps some Black-Briar Reserve hidden somewhere._

It was Loredas, and so it was unlikely Erikur would be up at the Blue Palace. _Which means he will be glad to offer me his hospitality._

After a quick _knock, knock, knock,_ they were greeted by a clearly surprised Erikur. Ever the sycophant, Erikur quickly twisted his surprise into a form of delighted shock. _If he calls it a “pleasant surprise”…_

“Thane Snow! What a pleasant surprise!”

_As predictable as snow in Dawnstar._

“Thane Erikur.” Jon greeted affably.

“Please! Come in!” Erikur prompted. Jon sent him a flawless imitation of a grateful smile. Instead of simply stepping in as Erikur clearly expected him to, Jon turned to Brynjolf, who handed him one of the chests.

Jon then stepped through the offered door, and was unable to resist the urge to send Erikur another innocent smile. _He’s a talented mummer, but those narrowed eyes_ scream _annoyance._

Once every chest was loaded off Sigaar’s carriage and into Erikur’s welcoming abode, Erikur led his two newest guests up a staircase and towards the sitting area. 

“We thank you for your hospitality, Erikur.” Jon said, pleasant tone still present. “I’m sorry to impose so suddenly.” _I’m really not._

“No apology is necessary!” Erikur declared in what Jon supposed was an attempt an an indignant tone. “I’d never deny _the Dragonborn_ my home and hearth!” Jon’s grateful smile was a little sharper in response to that. _We both know I’m dangerous. Let’s hope he remembers that._

“Where are my manners?” Jon asked after a small gasp. “This is Raddnar Bold-Mug. He’s my steward, from my residence down in Riften. A proud Nord, like yourself.”

“Good to meet you.” Brynjolf greeted with a firm handshake, not missing a beat at the false moniker. “Skyrim is in good hands with men like you advising our young queen.”

Erikur’s mouth quirked into a small, self assured smirk. _You’d think a sycophant would know when he’s being pandered to._

“Would you like some mead? Some wine, perhaps?” Erikur asked to the silent room.

“You know, I have struck a thirst, I think.” Jon proclaimed thoughtfully. “I’m afraid I’ve quite the hankering for some Black-Briar Reserve. You wouldn’t happen to have any on hand, would you?”

It was a question both Jon and Erikur knew the answer to. _He likes Black-Briar Reserve more than I do. I’d wager he has a sizeable stash on hand._

While Jon hadn’t lied when he claimed he’d been craving some Black-Briar Reserve, asking for it from his host was more of a power move than a true request. _I brought my own, anyway. It’s not like I’ll be getting drunk in front of Erikur, anyhow._

Once Erikur’s housecarl, an elf named Melaran, returned with three bottles of Black-Briar Reserve, Jon fixed Erikur with a look. One that had Erikur dropping some of the pretence that permeated within the room. 

“How’s business?” Jon asked. 

“Thriving.” Erikur answered.

“Splendid.” Jon said with a self assured smile.

He let the conversation stagnate for a second, but made sure his eyes never left his host’s. _Erikur tends to get misconstrued ideas of his own importance. He needs to be made aware of the power dynamic._

The staredown was a tired intimidation tactic, in Jon’s opinion, but its effectiveness could not be understated. _I’m asserting my dominance. I’m a wolf, and the alpha of this pack. I’m almost begging him to try and dispute that fact._

It appeared to work. Erikur diverted his gaze quickly, clearing his throat awkwardly. _Then again, it could just be another act. One meant to assure me of his complacence. Perhaps he even means to make me trust him._

“Thane Snow, I pray you’ll forgive the observation,” Erikur began. “but you didn’t ride all the way to Solitude, and knock on my door with multiple full chests, only to make business inquiries.”

Jon allowed himself a smirk, one that told Erikur that he’d hit the nail on the head.

“You’re right.” Jon answered. “Tomorrow, I’ll be taking an extended trip. Myself and my steward have found ourselves in need of hospitality tonight. I hope it’s no bother.”

“Absolutely not!” Erikur answered quickly, though Jon suspected he’d knew this would be requested as soon as he saw the chests. “My home and hearth are yours, as I’ve said.”

Jon was almost tempted to ask to sleep in Erikur’s bed, just to fuck with him, but decided against it. _It would be poor manners._

“I knew I could rely on you, Erikur.” Jon said. His words held thanks, but Jon was confident that Erikur understood the undertone. _You’re useful to me, until you’re not. Trust me, Thane Erikur. You want to stay useful._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know what you think!
> 
> A big shout goes out to Justin Trudeau, for _finally_ sending out the CESB money. I got laid off from one of my jobs, and had to pick up every extra shift I could, all the while looking desperately for a new one. Why does rent have to cost money? 🥴
> 
> The life of a university student, amirite?
> 
> ^ I'm using that as my excuse for not updating quick enough. It'll have to do.
> 
> Let me know if you guys like my take on Jon. He's kinda like a mob boss, in a way. Skyrim's own Michael Corleone.


	3. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Procuring a ship

**JON**

Erikur had business up at the Blue Palace, or so he claimed, and so Jon and Brynjolf had a few hours to themselves.

After the long ride, all Jon wanted to do was rest. _A good book and the rest of this mead sound fantastic, at the moment._

Alas, there was still work to be done. _No rest for the wicked, and all that._

Due to the obvious lack of frenzy across Skyrim at the discovery of a new continent, Jon and Brynjolf had deduced that the East Empire Trading Company was keeping secrets. _They likely want a monopoly on any trade coming from Westeros and Essos._

Jon had never been one to give up easily. _Especially when it comes to family._ And so, he hatched a plan. _I may even say a silent thanks to the Blades, for this one. Never thought I’d see the day I do that._

There had been a man Jon had met at a party, forever ago. A Redguard man, by the name of Razelan, who was employed at the East Empire Trading Company. _The life of the party, if I remember correctly_ , Jon thought with a smirk. _A loose-lipped life of the party._ The information that Jon hoped to glean was a little more important than anything Razelan had drunkenly proclaimed all those years ago at the Thalmor Embassy. _Something about wanting to bed Elenwen?_ Jon shuddered at the thought. _Different strokes for different folks, I suppose._

Since that debacle, Razelan had risen rather high within the East Empire Trading Company. _The type of prominence that leads to all sorts of sensitive information, if I’m lucky. But, I’m a champion of Lady Luck, so when am I not?_

_Knock, knock, knock._

Jon opened the door to Erikur’s house, and was greeted by a large, imposing man with a wide jovial smile.

“Jon Snow!” Razelan proclaimed, shaking Jon’s hand vigorously. “It’s been too long, my friend.”

Jon smiled in return. _Let’s see what you know._

Two hours, and two bottles of San’s Spiced Wine later, Jon had just the information he’d desired. _Razelan had nearly drained the entirety of the two bottles himself._ Jon had limited himself to only four or five sips of the divine substance.

The questioning had been laughably easy. _A little bit of drink in him and he’s telling you about the time he was unfaithful to his wife. Wine is like truth serum to him._

 _“You’ll not believe it!”_ He’d said. _“One of our sailors, one we’d thought dead at sea, came back from a long exploration voyage. The reason for his prolonged absence, you wonder? I’m glad you asked! He discovered a new continent! The people there call it ‘Westeros.’ He landed in a huge city, with a huge watchtower! Apparently, the lord of that city lives at the very top! Vevne said that it was hundreds and hundreds of feet tall! Can you believe it?”_

 _“No!”_ Jon had responded, all false awe. _“A new continent? Surely this news should be spread across Tamriel! This explorer should be famed from High Rock to Argonia!”_

Razelan had proceeded to make some clumsy explanation, that basically confirmed Jon’s suspicions regarding the East Empire Company’s greed. _Greed is an easy vice to pander to, when one is in a position of wealth. I can probably negotiate a discount for the Guild, if I promise to keep quiet about this discovery._

Jon let Razelan out a half hour before Erikur returned, feeling giddier than a newly betrothed maiden. _It’s really happening._

. . .

“Ah, ah, ah.” Jon whispered, hand clamping over his captive’s open mouth. “Screaming would not be in your best interest, would it friend?” _And so what if I dug Mehrunes’ Razor a little deeper into his neck to emphasize the point?_

The man shook his head almost imperceptibly. _The knife at the throat makes that movement a little difficult, I know._

“Any sort of loud noise, as well, actually.” Jon elaborated. “Sudden movements. Lashing out. These sorts of things would be very bad for your health, right about now. Don’t you think?”

The man nodded.

“In fact,” Jon intoned. “I think you should just continue to lie there. You’re comfortable, under your sheets, and in your own bed. It doesn’t get any better than this, right?”

Another nod.

“Do we have an understanding?” Jon murmured. At the man’s nod, Jon slowly removed his gloved hand. The man didn’t move a muscle, and the only sounds to be heard were quick, shallow breaths. _And no screams. Good._

“Please don’t kill me.” The man whimpered. His eyes were wide with fear. Jon mentally scoffed. _Not everyone wakes up to a Nightingale in their bed. You should be so lucky._

“I can’t exactly promise that, friend.” Jon tutted quietly. The man let out another whimper. _Pathetic._ “Whether or not you die tonight relies entirely upon you.”

The man gulped.

“Do you feel like being cooperative?” Jon asked, voice a menacing whisper.

“Yes.” The man said on an exhale. “I do.”

“Splendid.” Jon said, making sure the smile could be heard in his voice. _Hopefully, it sets him at ease a bit. Gods know this Nightingale hood can be a bit unnerving._

“Who are you?” The man asked.

“That is not important.” Jon responded. “What I’m more interested in, is who _you_ are, Aquillius Aeresius.”

The Imperial paled even more.

“Why?” His voice was shaky.

“Many reasons.” Jon said. “The most important of which is the company you work for.”

“What about it?”

“I heard through the grape vine that a brand new continent has been discovered.” Jon began. “Discovered by the East Empire Trading Company themselves, no less. Would you happen to know anything about that?”

“That’s a Company secret—”

“And if I were to ask you,” Jon cut him off, adding an edge to his voice.”“To set a client of mine up with a ship that could make the journey, and a captain who knew the way, would you continue to be _cooperative_?”

Aquillius stared Jon down in defiance for a second and a half, before relenting, but not without a glare. Jon removed his dagger from Aquillius’ throat, and hopped down from the bed, and began making his way out of the room.

Aquillius seemed almost relieved that a trip to Westeros was all Jon was after. _Not quite, friend._

“You know,” Jon began, stopping before the door. “A rival trading company would pay a lot of gold for this kind of knowledge.”

Aquillius’ glare became that much harsher. “Would they?”

“I think so.” Jon responded. “ _And_ , I think your boss in Imperial City would pay quite a bit himself for the knowledge of who let his dirty little secret leak.”

“What do you want?” Aquillius gritted out. _Straight to the point._

“I _want_ ,” Jon responded, only mocking a little. “A fifteen percent discount on goods sold to the Ragged Flagon, in Riften. That’s for the first secret. For the second secret, I’m going to need a fifteen percent discount on goods sold to Nightingale Distributing Services.”

Aquillius eyes widened at the name. _Of course, he knows._ It was the code name the Guild had taken to using when making large, _noticeable_ , legitimate purchases. _From places like The East Empire Trading Company._ It wasn’t exactly a _secret_ , _I mean look at the bloody name, we’re not exactly subtle about it_ , but there was no evidence connecting Nightingale Distributing Services to the Thieves Guild. _If one looked hard, they might find some. It’s a good thing Maven Black-Briar ensures that nobody looks hard._

“You’re from the Thieves Guild.” Aquillius breathed.

“Smart man.” Jon said. “Do we have an agreement?”

“What if I say no?” Aquillius seethed. Jon raised a brow, even though Aquillius wouldn’t be able to see it. “Loose lips could get me demoted, or fired. But being complicit in illegal activity could put me in prison! Why should I help you?”

Jon paused, letting the weight of the words the idiot before him felt brave enough to utter fester in the air. _I’ll give you a reason. A plenty good one, at that._

“Why do you think I paid _you_ a visit, Aquillius?” Jon asked, but continued on without waiting for an answer. “Vendicci not only manages your shipments, but is a fine sailor in her own right. It would make far more sense that I visit her, right?”

“Wrong. I chose you for a specific reason.” Jon said, interrupting Aquillius’ retort. He studied the man before him, and slowly approached the edge of the bed. “This bed was made for two, wasn’t it?” Aquillius flinched. _Got him._ “I heard all about her wedding, leading up to it. All of Solitude did. But it got quite a bit more famous after the fact. The blushing bride, dying at her own wedding. I mean, can you imagine? How tragic!”

“Stop.”

“A falling gargoyle head, of all things! We all knew Castle Dour was old, but _that_ old? No one could’ve known.”  
“Please, stop.”

“Poor Vittoria Vicci. A tragic _accident_ , wouldn’t you agree, Aquillius?” Jon asked. _Hook, line, and sinker._ “Or was it?”

“I SAID— wait, what do you mean, _or was it_?”

“A few guardsmen said they saw a man fleeing atop the castle walls after the, ehm, _accident._ ”

“Someone _murdered_ Vittoria?! _Who?_ ” Aquillius demanded vehemently.

Jon paused a moment, pretending to admire his dagger in the candlelight, before turning back to his new friend.

“You, if word reaches the right people.”

 _That_ shut him up. Jon went to continue.

“I mean, we’ve all heard the saying, right? _Hells hath no fury like a woman scorned._ You see, my friend, I’m a rather progressive man, and I think a jealous man can wreak just as much havoc as one of those fabled _women scorned_. And I think Asgeir Snow-Shod would agree with me. Don’t you?”

Aquillius was breathing heavy breaths. _He’s furious._ _Good_.

“I can provide an alibi—”

“Can you?” Jon retorted. “You weren't at the wedding. I’ll bet you were holed up in your room, drinking your sorrows away, seeing as nobody knew where you were. And I don’t blame you. Losing a love to a political marriage can’t be easy. The Snow-Shods might blame you, though. With the right… _persuasion._ ”

Jon could pinpoint the moment Aquillius accepted defeat. _They all do. And it is always as glorious as the first time._

“Fine.” Aquillius relented through clenched teeth. “I’ll give you your discounts.”

“But now we have another secret, and therefore another discount on the table.” Jon pointed out. “In exchange for keeping this under wraps, how about you double the discount for Nightingale Distribution?”

“Absolutely not!” Aquillius protested. “It’s not even _true—_ ”

“I’m sure the Snow-Shods will believe your word over mine.” Jon drawled. “Especially when they find out you were fucking her for years before the marriage. Asgeir was promised a maiden, as well. The poor man.”

“ _Fine._ ”

“That wasn’t too hard, now was it?” Jon asked through a smile. “Have the ship ready tomorrow, by midday. My client will be eager to get his journey underway.”

“As you say.” Aquillius spoke softly, and wouldn’t meet Jon’s eyes. Jon took that as his cue to leave.

He turned back just before shutting the door.

“Oh, and Aquillius?” Jon asked. The Imperial met his eyes. “I trust you understand the importance of _discretion_ on this particular matter, yes?”

“Yes.”

“Sweet dreams.” And with that, he disappeared. _Like I was never there._

. . .

Aquillius was true to his word. A cog was waiting for them at the docks by the time Jon and Brynjolf had dragged their chests out of Erikur’s house and into the rented carriage.

The captain was the notorious Vevne himself, as well. _He found Westeros once. Let’s hope he can do it again._

“My thanks, Mr. Aeresius.” Brynjolf said affably, before gesturing to Jon with his head. “The Thane can’t speak for a few days. We ran into some trouble on the road up here. Took a bit more of a fight than expected. Thane Snow was coughing blood when it was all over. One too many shouts.”

“I understand.” Aquillius responded, something akin to awe colouring his voice. “I wish you both safe travels. Fare thee well, Thane Jon Snow, and Raddnar Bold-Mug.”

“My thanks.” Brynjolf responded. Jon merely nodded.

Aquillius walked away, and Jon let out a breath, before muttering to Brynjolf. “Can I bloody speak, now?”

“Don’t get all crabby with me, lad.” Brynjolf muttered back at him. “You’re the one who was holed up in his bedroom at three in the morning last night. Wonder what you were doin—” he broke off with a chuckle, as Jon gave him a shove.

“It got us a bloody ship, didn’t it?” Jon retorted good-naturedly. “I _may_ also have caused a bit of lifelong trauma, but that’s just water under the bridge.”

“By the eight, lad. What’d you do to the poor man?”

“I only threatened to implicate him in his ex-lover’s murder.” Jon protested with a roll of the eyes. “Nothing too serious.” Brynjolf snorted at that.

Once the last chest was loaded, they were off.

. . .

The third month without seeing land was the most stressful.

Vevne kept on insisting that, with the wind they’d gotten, and by the pattern of the stars or some shit, that they were still heading in the right direction, but Jon grew more and more restless, and doubtful, as the days wore on.

Brynjolf found him at the bow, one evening.

The sun was setting at their backs, and the sky was a nice peach pink. Jon always used to enjoy the gentle rocking of a ship beneath his feet when he’d been Ser Wylis Manderly’s squire. But now, every rock back and forth merely stoked his ire like a stick poking at a fire.

“Pink sky at night, sailor’s delight.” Brynjolf intoned, coming to lean on the railing next to him. “Pink sky at morning, sailor’s warning.”

“Whatever I’m feeling right now, it most certainly is _not_ delight.” Jon grumbled back at him.

“Don’t tell that to our brave captain, you’ll spoil is good mood.” Brynjolf drawled. “He insists that we’re _almost there._ ”

“He’s been saying _almost there_ for a week, now.” Jon seethed. “Not to mention that we’re running out of food. We’re going to get scurvy if we stay another week on board this fucking ship.”

A hand came to rest at his shoulder, instantly providing some comfort.

“Have faith, lad.” Brynjolf told him softly. “You’ll see them again.”

Just like that, the anger ebbed out of him.

“I know.” Jon responded, voice thick. “I guess I just never realized how much I missed them, you know? I looked at the whole squireship as a way to escape. As a way to earn the respect of those in the castle who refused to give it to me as readily as they gave it to Robb, and even Theon. Now…” he cleared his throat.

“Now I catch myself wishing sometimes that I’d never left.”

It wasn’t an easy admission to make. If he’d never left, he’d never have gotten lost on that ill-fated voyage with Ser Marlon Manderly, and would never have ended up in Skyrim in the first place.

He’d never have gotten as powerful as he is now. He’d never have learned the ways of the Voice, and how to channel his inner _dovah_. He’d never have learned magic, and all the useful tricks that come with it. He’d _definitely_ never learned to be as skilled and reliant on subterfuge and manipulation as he is now.

He would never have met Brynjolf, or Delvin, or Karliah, or Vex, or any of the other Guild members. He would never have met those he considers to be _brothers and sisters._

 _Would I even miss them? I have blood brothers and sisters in Westeros, and I would’ve died for any of them. Would I die for any of my Guild members?_ The truth to that question causes little pinpricks of guilt to stab at him, and so Jon refuses to acknowledge the question any longer.

“I get that, lad.” Brynjolf said. “But the gods work in mysterious ways. For some reason, you were meant to fall off that boat. You were meant to wash up on our shores. You can’t change the past, so don’t bother fretting over it. Fret over the future. At least that, you can control.”

“Aye.” Jon agreed quietly. “I suppose so.”

“Liven up a bit, lad.” Brynjolf told him with a nudge. “We might be short on food, but we’re not short on mead. Drink up.”

“If you insist.” Jon relented with a smirk.

The rest of the night was spent drinking and reminiscing, and when Jon awoke, it was to a blinding headache, and a call of “land, ahoy!”

. . .

The Hightower truly lived up to its name.

It was odd that that thought was what cut through the chorus in his head of _I’m home, I’m home, I’m fucking_ home.

But it did. The Hightower was fucking _massive._

Oldtown as a whole was huge, and bustling with activity. It was like ifSolitude had taken a Potion of Strength. Brynjolf was resupplying at the market, and Vevne was visiting an _establishment._ Jon, on the other hand, had work to do.

 _Bingo_ , he thought, spotting the two large green sphinxes guarding a large doorway.

_The Citadel._

As Jon marched through the gate, he chuckled to himself. _One little performance of my talents would have these old men rethinking everything they think they know._

Jon entered into Scribe’s Hearth, and walked past all the young acolytes in their stalls, scribbling away. He marched right up to the old man at the end of the hall, who seemed to have a permanent scowl etched onto his face. _I’d be scowling too if I’d been assigned to secretary duty._

“Yes?” The man asked, raising a condescending brow.

“I understand the Citadel does currency exchange.” Jon began diplomatically.

“We do.” The man agreed, before eyeing Jon up and down with a sniff. “Though usually in larger quantities. You may have the wrong place.”

Jon seethed silently at the fucking _gall_ of the old rat, and looked down at his own clothes. They were a bit frayed, and dirty, from the voyage, but he didn’t care. _The fucking audacity. He thinks he can talk to ME like that?_

Jon just about _FUS ROH DAH_ ’d the man into Sovngarde, but he noticed some other acolytes nearby were paying close attention to the altercation.

It gave Jon a _severe_ reality check.

Because, in Westeros, magic was _heavily_ frowned upon. The closest thing to magic you would see in Westeros is the occasional Red Priest, who liked to fuck around with fire.

Therefore, Jon _disintegrating_ a man with naught but a _shout_ , would likely have him stoned in the streets. _Self fucking control, Snow. Deep breaths._

“It’s a larger transaction.” Jon assured him. “Have no worry.”

As if on cue, two of the deckhands came running in with his chests, and dropped them behind Jon.

“How large, exactly?” The old man asked, amused. _You are quite literally asking for it, you old prick._ Please _continue to test my patience._

“How ever much,” Jon said with a smirk, before opening the chest. “ _this_ is.”

Pure, unfiltered _satisfaction_ filled Jon’s heart at the slack jawed look on the old maester’s face.

“H-H-How many bars do you have there, young man?” He eventually sputtered out.

“Four hundred. Gold.” Jon confirmed. “What can you give me for it?”

“Four _hundred_? Seven hells.” The maester muttered under his breath. “Well, the going rate for a bar of gold from the Lannister mines is approximately six hundred and twenty five gold dragons. So, for _four hundred_ —”

“Two hundred and fifty thousand.” Jon finished for him. _Whew._ “Not bad.”

“ _Not bad?_ ” The maester was indignant. “That is more than nigh on every single noble house in the Seven Kingdoms! How ever did you come across so much wealth, young man?”

“Hard work, and dedication, maester.” Jon answered with a coy smirk. “You going to give me my coin, or not?”

At the end of the day, Jon could only fit fifty thousand dragons into the now empty chests. The rest of the coin would be stored in a bank vault, under his name. The maester became a lot kinder to him once he calculated how much coin the Citadel would be making with the five percent transaction fee.

. . .

“I believe they call this _Blackwater Bay_ , my Thane.”

“Thank you. Vevne.” Jon said with an eye roll. “I am from here, you know.”

“Shall we make our way inland?”

“No.” Jon decided after a few moments’ thought. “We have enough supplies for another two months, yes?”

“Correct, my Thane. The stop in Sunspear was most advantageous”

“Keep sailing, then.” Jon commanded. “We’ll dock at White Harbour. I want to see my home again.”

. . .

The weather got cooler. _I missed that nip in the air._ Skyrim had an almost identical climate to the North. _Snow and grey skies._ The heat and burning sun they’d endured the entire way ‘round Dorne and the Stormlands had been hot, sticky, and uncomfortable.

They docked in White Harbour a few hours before midnight. Once they found an inn of an appropriate reputation, they settled in. Once rooms were assigned and the deckhands had offloaded possessions into their corresponding rooms, Jon and Brynjolf went fishing.

 _Information_ fishing.

That first step onto Northern soil had made Jon feel like a giddy maiden. He kept on whispering to himself the whole way to the inn. _I’m home, I’m home. I’m fucking home._ He knew Brynjolf could hear him, but he didn’t care. The Northern air hitting his lungs felt like skooma to an addict.

He couldn’t get _enough._

The two of them made their way down to the main floor of the inn. _Let the fishing begin._

He and Brynjolf had done this many times. _Usually_ , they can get away with just sitting close by to a patron who’d had a bit too much to drink, and therefore felt it was his sovereign duty to regale the entire inn with his life story.

But, sometimes, a little conversation was needed. A little prompting, here and there, while plying with mead, and you could get most any type of information out of someone.

Northerners are quite a closed off people, in Jon’s memory. They keep to themselves, and boisterous as they may be, never really speak of matters of importance.

Jon fully expected a conversation and mead kind of night, but that was not the case.

No.

This was the easiest fishing trip he’d ever been on.

Jon and Brynjolf took one step into the inn when they heard the first bit. They only needed to stay five minutes to hear the rest.

_King Robert Baratheon is dead._

_Lord Eddard Stark, Hand of the King, has been arrested for treason. He is being held in the Black Cells._

_Robb Stark, the Young Wolf, leads the North in revolt._

_The Riverlands are aflame._

_The Seven Kingdoms are at war._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have touched down! Jon and Brynjolf are fresh off the boat, with Winterfell on the horizon!
> 
> Next chapter will be all about homecoming. Not the high school dance, but the fun kind of homecoming. You know the one.

**Author's Note:**

> There will be canon dialogue from both ASoIaF and Skyrim used in this fic. (Mostly ASoIaF)
> 
> I owe everything to the fantastic creators of both universes.
> 
> No plagiarism in this house 🙅♂️


End file.
